


dne sih ,gninnigeb ruoy

by giidas



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Discussion of canonical character death, Feelings, M/M, Obliquely, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, The Protagonist agonizes over it is what happens, kind of?, no beta we die like men, spoilers for the movie, timey wimey nonsense, who even knows am i right or am i right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26144842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giidas/pseuds/giidas
Summary: All those Bond movies you watched as a kid never really prepared you for just how boring International Espionage can be, especially when you're trapped in the window seat on a transatlantic flight, with Neil sleeping in the seat next to you.Your mind wanders, and you wish you could stop it.Or maybe you don't, not anymore.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet), The Protagonist/Neil (Tenet)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 246





	dne sih ,gninnigeb ruoy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授權翻譯】束結的他，始開的你／dne sih ,gninnigeb ruoy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26930545) by [noelle745](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelle745/pseuds/noelle745)



> yeah, i have nothing to say for myself. enjoy? enjoy.

The thing about the world of international espionage is that it’s, for better or worse, international. Even with private jets ready at the drop of a hat, with speed boats and illegally fast cars, travelling from one place to the next still takes ages. And that’s when you have those resources, which you very much don’t, now. Your legs are starting to go numb, but Neil’s dozing in the aisle seat and something stops you from shaking him awake.

His head is tilted back, the airport U shaped pillow doing a poor job of keeping it at an angle that won’t have him regretting this nap the moment he wakes up, but still, you hesitate. His face is slack and his lips are parted, and when you look up, you see the stewardess looking from him to you and smiling a knowing smile.

Well.

Her assumptions might work in your favor, if she’s going to remember you as the cute couple in love and not as two dudes in crumpled suits who kept whispering about something for half the flight. You raise an eyebrow, plaster on the most innocent and charming expression you can muster, show her your empty cup and whisper a very soft _water._ She shows one pointer finger, then her pointer and middle finger. You mime back two before you can really think about it.

After she disappears down the aisle, you lean back into your seat, pushing your back into it and straightening your legs as much as the seat in front of you allows. You end up kicking the guy in front of you, who grumbles and gives you the stink eye through the gap in the seats. You try to look contrite but judging by his reaction, you fail at making it convincing.

At least no one’s reclined their seat yet.

Neil’s shins are propped up on the seat in front of him. He’s curled up in a vague mockery of the fetal position, and you have no idea how he can stand it. By your estimation, he hasn’t moved in the last two hours. You think about waking him again, just so his muscles don’t lock up like this, just to save him some imagined future discomfort. It’s the least you can do–

The stewardess appears, halting your movements, a water bottle and an extra cup in her hand. She takes the one you offer her and expertly pours out exactly the right amount into both so that none of it spills on Neil when she hands the cups over to you.

You smile and nod your head in thanks.

Neil makes a small hurt noise from his sleep.

Her eyes find yours. Her brows are drawn together, mouth a thin line, but when she sees you reaching for him, placing your hand on his biceps, when she sees your thumb rub up and down through the material of his wrinkled suit jacket, her expression relaxes and she turns around and leaves.

“Hey,” you say, close to Neil’s ear, “Neil, it’s okay, it’s me.”

If he’s having a nightmare, you know the chances are he’ll lash out, that he’ll—

He takes a sharp breath, his eyes snapping open, but that’s the only movement he makes. His whole body is frozen, locked tight. You can’t help but wonder what it took to train this reflex into him, to _un_ train his natural body’s reactions. You’re not sure you want to know.

He looks at you and all the tension leaves his body. He closes his eyes and covers them with a hand for good measure.

“Hey,” he croaks.

“You were dreaming, I think,” you tell him in place of an apology.

“Yeah.” 

You still can’t see his eyes, but his lips are pressed together, corners of his mouth downturned. He clears his throat and you realize you’re still holding his biceps, still rubbing your thumb in small circles as if you’re entitled to be soothing him. Before you can draw back, his hand drops from his face and covers yours. He squeezes your fingers and as his hand falls away, so does yours.

“Thanks.” He shakes his head a little, dispelling the sleep from his mind, and clears his throat again. You raise an eyebrow and look pointedly at his legs which are still pretzeled against the seat in front of him. He gives you a rueful smile and you can’t help the way you roll your eyes at him. 

He looks too charming for his own good.

Man, the fact that you no longer stop to ponder where such a thought came from, you think, and suppress a chuckle at yourself. Nah, The Nile’s a river in Egypt and you’re too old for that shit anyway. The way you both live your life, there’s no time— there’s too much time?— for that, and it would eat you up inside. You can’t have that. Can’t have emotions clouding your judgement when it might mean the difference between life or death. When it does mean that. Has already meant that.

You close your eyes and think about the whiteboard.

+

_He knows your beginning. Has always known it, will always know it. You wonder if he understands— well, of course he does. He’s the one with the degree in Physics._

+

He nudges you out of your thoughts when he’s in the middle of extricating himself from his pretzel state. You open one eye and hope your whole face shows just how unimpressed you are with his antics.

“What,” he asks, eyes wide as if he has no idea what he’s doing.

You snort and close your eye, trying to see the whiteboard again, trying to mentally add what you’ve learned on this mission, Inverted for more of it than you’d’ve liked— 

He kicks you in the knee and his expression is genuinely apologetic as you hiss and your eyes snap open.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, putting his hand on your thigh, trying to soothe the hurt. His fingers squeeze the muscle there and your whole body tenses. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly and he slowly lets go. “Sorry,” he repeats again, and you don’t know how to tell him that you’re the one who’s sorry, because you know, you’ve known, perhaps will always know. He’s so easy to read, at least for you. You think he’s known you for years, a decade even, if your calculations based on his rare hints are correct, and yet you feel like you’re an expert on him, even with just a couple of months’ worth of knowledge of who he is, has been. Will be.

You think about his backpack in the overhead compartment, how nondescript it is, if not for the trinket on a red string. You think about his lock picking skills, about a piece of blue fabric wrapped around his arm, and a piece of red wrapped around yours. You think about dust, explosions, locked gates.

When you come back to yourself he’s talking to the stewardess, asking her for more water for the both of you, and she smiles at him and her eyes meet yours. Yeah, she thinks you’re a cute couple in love alright, and she’s only a little wrong.

When he turns back to face the seat in front of him and runs his fingers through his fringe, trying to make it stay out of his eyes, you find yourself once again contemplating the list of pros and cons. You know, have known, _will always know_ that it’s a bad idea. That it’s going to end in disaster, in desolation, in death.

That it’s actually already ended that way.

Then again, has it?

The cards you’ve been dealt— will be dealt?— don’t define the hand you’ll play. There are aces up your sleeves, there are entire new stacks of cards up there, or so you’ve apparently led yourself to believe. You wonder if agonizing over this is a constant, if it’s the one fixed spot in time that no Inversion can undo, can even attempt to touch.

You think it might be. 

It has to be. 

It feels like it is.

But then, your subconscious mind’s been made for a while now, and so has your heart.

You don’t think you’ve wasted as much time as you could have, all things considered. But you also know you’ll hate yourself, already hate yourself, _will always hate yourself,_ for wasting even a goddamn minute. You might have years, maybe even a decade, but you know no matter how long you’ll end up having with him, it’s never gonna be enough.

Not by a long shot.

+

_You know his end. Have always known it, will always know it. And you wonder if he realizes, if he understands— but of course he does. He’s the one who told you his life is in your hands only days after you met him._

+

The seatbelt sign dings and lights up and your foot is jumping up and down. You barely ever fidget, but now that you’ve finally decided, your body’s poised for action, for fight or flight. Landing, disembarking, grabbing your suitcases, hailing a cab, getting to the hotel, getting into the room, you add it all up in your head and wonder why you suddenly can’t wait that long.

Neil notices, and you shake your head before the words of worry can leave his mouth. He raises an eyebrow but leaves you alone, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the seat. His hands are relaxed, clasped together loosely between his thighs.

Your fingers are sliding down his forearm, over his wrist, and into place between his own before you can consciously stop yourself. You want to blame muscle memory, but— Neil is still, yet all his muscles are as relaxed as they were before you touched him, and you wonder how many times you’ve done this, will do this.

You bring your joined hands up to your lips and kiss the back of his hand, once, letting your lips linger. You hear a sharp breath, but he doesn’t take his hand away, and you know it’s not because it might be noticed, might break an imaginary cover. When your lips leave his skin and your arm relaxes, he takes charge and presses your joined hands over his heart. You steel yourself and finally look at him.

His head is still leaning against his seat, but his face is turned to you, like a flower to its sun. His fringe is falling into his eyes again but he ignores it, keeps his eyes on you. He’s searching your face and you wish you knew what he’s looking for, because you’d give it to him. You’re pretty sure you’d give him just about anything.

His eyes fall closed and he takes a deep breath, then one more, before he slides down in his seat and leans his head on your shoulder, your hand still trapped in his, letting you feel the steady and strong beat of his heart.

Your eyes don’t sting, or so you tell yourself as you close them, as you turn your head enough to kiss the top of his head. Your eyes don’t sting because you’re not mourning anything, _fuck._ This is the _beginning,_ has _always_ been the beginning, _will_ always be the beginning, you repeat to yourself, like a matra. Maybe enough repetitions will make it true.

Maybe enough Inversions will help you figure out how to undo what’s already been done, because you can wrap your head around a lot, but not around _that._ Not around the possibility that you never figure it out, have never figured it out. 

You have so much time at your disposal, and there has to be a way.

You think about Neil, think about future you– past you?– not telling him what’s waiting for him. You think about Neil telling you why he hasn’t told you who you were fighting back at the Freeport. Something seizes in your chest and it’s hard to breathe, and you know with an unshakeable certainty that he learned that from you, that you never told him, that you’re never _going_ to tell him. Your brain tries to figure that one out, because nothing is stopping you from telling him, is it? You still have free will. You could tell him right now, could make him look up, could make him look into your eyes— 

You close yours instead and lean your forehead against the crown of his head.

Your eyes don’t sting, you tell yourself, because you’re not mourning any ~~one~~ thing.

+

_He’s your beginning._

_And you’re his end._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, comment and kudos give me a dose of serotonin, and if you wanna scream about these two, look me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/giidass) or [tumblr](https://giidas.tumblr.com/)


End file.
